Ribbon of Fate

A Story by Venus Marie

A short story, inspired by Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracey Chevalier.

Ribbon of Fate

[1657]

Two children, a girl of eight years of age and a boy the same age, frolicked carelessly through a flowery field, a warm summer breeze flitting past them.

“Catch up Alekzander, or you'll never beat me!” A confident giggle passed the little girls' lips as she glanced behind her at the boy struggling to match her pace. He pouted as she fastened her pace, weaving effortlessly through the swaying yellow dandelions.

“Rinslette,” huff " “wait for,” huff " “me!” The boy stopped, wracked by a fit of coughs; Rinslette stopped, worry washing over her features.

“Alek, Alek! I'm sorry,” she sniffed, tears brimming around her crystal blue eyes, “Are you okay?” Alekzander nodded stiffly, forcing a smile to appease the anxious girl.

“Alek, Rins,” a tall, gangly woman called, her face contorted in pain. “What happened mother?” Rins asked innocently, staring up at the woman with wide eyes. There was anguish in the woman's dark brown eyes as she kneeled down at the children's level, “Your father " both your fathers they "“ a sob escaped her lips, “There was an accident at the factory and they've both...passed away.”

The two children, as intelligent as they were compared to others their age, were confused. But they noticed the sadness hanging like a dark cloud above their heads, and they too, cried.

[September, 1666]

Rinslette sat by the hearth, weaving a golden ribbon through her hair. “Rins, what are you doing here?” Her mother stood by the doorway, slightly more hunched over with dark rings around her eyes, “I thought you'd be with Alekzander.”

She shook her head, “I'm not sure where he is.”

“Well, find him; his mother has to speak to him. It's important.” Since the accident that had killed her father, Rinslette's mother had become strict and detached, focused more on surviving than being a nurturing mother. They had had enough money to keep them going, if just barely, but her mother still had to work, sewing lace and other fine things for people of wealth that could afford to own such nice things.

Rinslette nodded obediently, “He's most likely away painting again.”

Her mother sighed, her tone turning harsh, “That won't make them any money, not unless he starts making commissions.”

Choosing not to comment, Rinslette brushed past her mother and headed out.

The town was bustling with people, none of which were Alekzander. She asked those she knew and dared speak to " the majority of people who she'd grown up knowing before her father's death were of high society, all of whom found it easy to disregard her after her family's fall to poverty.

“I saw him down near the market " thinking he's tryin' to find some inspiration; don't see why, he has you don't he?” Ignoring the mischievous grin on the man's face, Rinslette thanked him quietly and walked away.

Alekzander rested on a rock, staring out into the vast, flat terrain " the field of flowers had long since died away. He still went there often though, reminiscing about simpler times and finding beauty in the earthy brown tints kissing the clouded grey sky at the horizon. But today, he was escaping from his mother " she was kind and protective of him, but she was getting older, and they needed money to live. They'd been fine up until recently when the money they'd saved had all been used up.

“I figured I'd find you here.” The voice that spoke was familiar, a comfort from the world that had turned its back on him and his mother, “You know me too well, Rins.” He answered without turning to face her.

“Yes, well,” She sounded hesitant, and he knew why, “Your mother is looking for you.”

[December, 1666]

They stood at the river bank, massive boats docked at the port behind them. Alekzander, looking haggard and many years older than he actually was, stood with cases of his things by his feet. “You'll be coming back soon " won't you?” Rinslette asked in a small voice, refusing to look up at him out of fear that she'd lose what little resolve she had left.

Her question was met with a long silence that was broken only by the gruff yells of the men preparing the boat to set sail.

“Goodbye.”

He still didn't answer her question.

[1670]

Alekzander stepped off the boat, a silk cloth in hand protecting his most precious possessions. He breathed in the crisp air " summer had come again. Leaving the port, he walked down the familiar streets beside the canal, his feet remembering the way even whilst he was distracted by his surroundings. It had been too long since he'd set sights on the stone houses, and crowded back streets.

It didn't matter that he'd just arrived or that he was tired from the trip, there was one person he wanted " needed " to see.

“Hello?” He called, standing at the opened doorway.

“Is that you, Alekzander?” Rinslette's mother dropped the cloth she'd been holding and rushed towards him; she looked a lot less frail and her eyes shone bright with joy. “You've finally returned.” She placed her hands on his shoulders, sizing him up, until she reached his face. At that point, her smile fell, “She isn't here.”

She explained the events of the past few years " having fallen sick, she was no longer able to work and Rinslette was forced, more or less, to seek employment however menial. Instead, before she began working, Rinslette was courted by a rich man, the son of a governor. With little choice, she was married to the man within a few months.

“Have you seen your mother yet? I'll bet she's eager to see you " why don't you head over now?” However much he wanted to see his mother " to tell her of the beauty he saw while away, and the inspiration he drew from it, and the things that made him finally decide that he would be a painter, even if it would not leave him swimming in wealth " he had to see her; but was it worth it, now that she belonged to another?

A knock on the stone outside drew their attention; without waiting, the person stepped in, his heavy steps reverberating through the small home.

“Mother, are you home?”

Alekzander was alert at the voice " it had matured, but it still remained kind and musical " and he turned just as a man, broad shouldered and wide, stepped through with Rinslette standing dutifully behind him.

The man stared at Alekzander, his eyes suspicious and scrutinising, “Who is this fellow?” His voice was deep with an undertone of obvious superiority.

“Alekzander Willms,” he extended his hand.

The man's eyes widened, “Gustaf Reemer,” he shook Alekzander's hand, “Willms, you say? Alekzander Willms the painter who has just emerged in recent years?” Alekzander nodded " how did this man know of him? “You're very difficult to track down, my friend. I've happened upon some of your works when I was on business overseas. I thought how nice it would be to have you paint my beautiful wife, here.” He gestured to Rinslette, who remained quiet and did not meet Alekzander's eye, no matter how hard he stared at her.

“So, how about it? Will you paint her?” He pushed Rinslette forward, as if presenting a delectable object to a prospective buyer.

Without missing a beat, Alekzander answered, “Of course.”

“Straighten your posture,” He told her, “No, more. Goodness Rinslette, you're of high society now " act it.” She said nothing to his spiteful jabs and did as she was told; she clutched the book in her hand closer to her chest, and loosened her grip on the trumpet " she couldn't care less if it fell.

“That ribbon,” he suddenly spoke, stabbing the palpably uncomfortable silence that had pervaded every moment they were together, “Take it off.”

Finally, Rinslette found her voice, “Why?” she asked; the ribbon was his gift to her when they were still young. She wore it every day.

“Because it catches too much light. It glints and distracts the eye,” His voice had become cold and unwavering, “Wear these instead.” He handed her a bunch of feathers; she took them from him, their hands brushing for the briefest of moments.

She fixed the feathers into her hair in a way that pleased him, then returned to her spot. She looked up at him, watching him paint, watching him as his blue-grey eyes focused on the tiniest details and his face flitted between ease and difficulty " and then he'd look back at her, and their eyes would meet.

Taken aback, Rinslette turned away instantly. She realised that she could not look straight at him; not if she was to spend these next few months with him, seeing him examine her in a way that left little to the imagination. No, she had to look away " anywhere but at him.

She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to wander to more simpler times; the smallest of smiles spread across her lips.

“I understand the painting is nearly finished,” Gustaaf stated, swirling a glass of red wine in his hand.

“Not quite,” Alekzander answered, “I still have much left to do.”

It had been many months since he started, and it usually never took him more than few months to paint; but he decided, with Rinslette, to take his time. After all, when this was done, when else could he spend time with her? When else could he have her on her own again?

“Well, you'd better be quick,” there was a mischievous glint in Gustaaf's eye, “My wife is with child. It may ruin your painting if she looks bigger than when you started.”

He found no humour in what Gustaaf said. “Then,” Alekzander replied without thinking, “I'll re-do it all.”

She struggled to sit on the small stool, her stomach heavy with child. He found the sky blue robe she wore deceiving, to the point that he was going to change the entire scheme of colours because of it.

She was no virgin, nor was the child within her conceived through heavenly means; he was not stupid, he knew what men and women had to do to procreate.

But he left it as it was, because he found the blue matched her perfectly, and though she didn't open them, the colour mirrored her own mesmerising blue eyes.

They barely spoke the entire time he painted her, but the silence, albeit uncomfortable at first, had eased eventually, and had returned to the same kind of silence that they often shared in years long gone.

He was nearly finished " he'd lied to Gustaaf " and was eager to find something to improve on, something to add, something to change, anything, to extend the time they had together. Examining her face, his eyes traced the curve of her cheek, the length of her lashes, and the soft pink of her lips. But he found something odd about her; today the light did not bounce off and illuminate her skin. No, today it made her look sickly and pale.

“Rinslette, are you okay?”

She opened her eyes, and shook her head, pressing her hand on her bulging stomach, “I feel ill. It may be something I ate before; don't worry, continue, please.” Hesitantly, he lifted the brush, but before it could touch the canvas, Rinslette fainted.

[1673]

“Hello Alekzander, how have you been?” Rinslette's mother had grown noticeably older, her weakened body unable to stand the most recent devastation.

“I am well,” Alekzander answered, “Yourself? And where are you off to on such a fine day?” He asked the question, though he already knew the answer.

“I'm fairing,” she smiled feebly, “And I'm sure you're well aware of where I'm going today. Do you plan to visit too?”

He shook his head. Since Rinslette's death during childbirth, the world had become a bleak place, full of black and greys, and all colour stripped from it. “I have some work to do.” A small sigh escaped the old woman's lips, “As you wish. Give greetings to your mother as well.” Nodding, he bowed his head, and they parted ways.

Alekzander sat on a rock, contemplating the landscape before him. He found no beauty in the earthy brown soil and sad, grey clouds. All they symbolised was death, and a happiness long lost.

A single yellow dandelion flower grew at his foot, swaying in the warm summer breeze. Alekzander reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, golden ribbon. It caught the sun light and shone, a beautiful gleam of gold.

Weaving it around the stem of the flower, he tied a bow just under the growing bud. The two golds reflected rays of light " the only life on the vast, bleak landscape.

Fin.